


Doctor Strange, Love

by Necronon



Series: Nature and Nurture [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Psychic Bond, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Hannibal's late-night close encounter with Will Graham has consequences.





	Doctor Strange, Love

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that time I wrote a thinly-veiled excuse for horror and a monster/alien/other/I'm-not-spoiling-it Will? And I said I might write more? Well, I guess I'm doing that instead of adding a chapter to BSB. Sorrynotsorry. This can probably stand alone. Maybe. I'm stingy with the deets in both. I wrote this all in one sitting, and I know better to post before I revisit it for a second editing, but I'm indulging myself. Tags added as I update.
> 
> Complain about this trash or Art Struggles to me over on my [tumblr.](http://thenecronon.tumblr.com/)

Three weeks. Three weeks have passed since Hannibal Lecter woke up on Will Graham’s spare room floor, disoriented and, for lack of a better explanation, egregiously hungover. Hannibal does not drink, not heavily; he keeps his faculties in good order. He also does not wear teal, department store briefs—Hanes, cotton, acrid with the odor of store-brand detergent. He explicitly does not wear _Will Graham’s_ briefs, and, what’s more, does not wear them after one-night stands with the same man.

Except he has done all these things, if the evidence were to be believed, and when Will had hovered over him, arms outstretched like he’d wanted to help, to do _something_ , Hannibal had been at a loss for words. If Will’s memory served him better, Hannibal could only assume the details were titillating at best, judging by Will’s very palpable humiliation. A _Tattler_ heyday at worst.

Had he slept with Will? Had his clandestine psychic driving driven Will to do something _to Hannibal_? That morning, and for several days thereafter, he’d felt phantom hands and—ah, that too. A tell-tale intimate ache. Only fragments of the memory remain. He recalls Will’s strange behavior, before and up to driving to Wolftrap; something like sandalwood and the sweet funk of infection; the new moon; the nightmares, along with a detached confusion.

And indignity. He is not in the habit of having to wrangle his own, but had to do just that after going so far as to imply Will had drugged him—Will, his nascent friend and covert pet project—before some pro bono blood work, courtesy of Dr. Sutcliffe, yielded nothing untold.

He sits with Sutcliffe now, halfway through dental hygienist tartar, to be followed by a zingy blackberry compote flecked with shaved dark chocolate.

“I know you,” Sutcliffe says, waggling his fork. “You already have a preliminary diagnosis in mind.”

“I really haven’t.” And for once, he hasn’t.

“It’d help if I knew what direction to look in is all. Your blood panels and imaging are normal. Better than normal—for a man skirting his fifties, you’re healthy as a horse. Care to share your secret?”

“A carefully cultivated diet.” Hannibal offers a polite smile and takes his next bite with a modest flourish.

“I can’t afford your diet. Time or the money.”

“You forget we share a similar employment history. I know that you certainly can.”

“Well, I guess I can’t justify three-hundred dollar bottles of wine, then.”

“Four-fifty and some change, I think.”

“ _Jesus.”_ Sutcliffe pauses mid-bite, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I have a particular palate.”

“Thank God _I don’t._ ”

“Oh, but you do—only not gastronomical.” Hannibal sits back and sets his hands on either side of his plate, chewing thoughtfully. He fingers the stem of his glass and asks, “What about parasites?”

“Without any reoccurring symptoms?”

“Yet.”

“ _Yet_ _,_ but I think that might be a stretch. Abdominal pain and disorientation? That could be anything. I’m a bit miffed that you’re even so concerned, if I’m being honest.”

“Nematodes can hide in the body for years.”

“That would be a very long process of elimination. Is it so unlikely that you suffered a fugue state? It’s not chronic. It might never happen again, a fluke.”

“Flukes are for the shortsighted, Dr. Sutcliffe.” Hannibal clears his throat, smiling a little less kindly though his company doesn’t take notice. “I know my body.”

Sutcliffe shrugs. “I think you’re being paranoid. Look, let’s give it a few more weeks and see what happens.”

Hannibal frowns and pushes out of his chair, busying himself with clearing away dinner before dessert. He does not tell his colleague that his symptoms are, in fact, chronic. He doesn’t tell him about Will, or the otherness he feels in his gut, anchored there like an impending stomach ache, that he struggles to suppress.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s buzzing with anticipation, can barely sit still, and _now he’s starting to sweat, too_ _._ God, he must look ridiculous. Will he be mad? No, of course not. It was a coincidence. It isn’t like he’s _trying_ to rub shoulders—well, the opera aside; he had kind of hoped to see the good doctor there. A little.

Franklyn dabs at his moist brow and rheumy eyes, leg bouncing nervously. When the door to the Dr. Lecter’s office swings open, Franklyn startles and jumps to his feet before rushing inside.

“Good evening, Franklyn.”

Franklyn, so busy rehearsing his proposition in his head that he doesn’t hear the pleasantry, plops down in a chair and places his hands neatly on the armrests. He waits for Dr. Lecter to take his customary seat across from him, wearing a wide, put-upon smile.

_Not yet. You don’t want to seem desperate. Just chat him up a little, casually, c-a-s-u-a-l-l-y, mention—_

“We’re cheese folk!” Franklyn gestures excitedly and claps a confident hand atop the arm rest, and with his timing fudged, has no where to go but forward: “Sorry, it’s just... I saw you at—Doctor Lecter?”

 

* * *

 

 

Franklyn darts into his office, a moist bundle of raw nerves whose friendly overture Hannibal already anticipates. He’s careful to keep a neutral mask in place, allowing himself no more than a private _sotto voce_ , “Please come in,” before joining his patient.

He hadn’t acknowledged Franklyn while purchasing his brie and Bitto, but he’d been very much aware of him . . . and his trailing scent of mothballs and sebum, distinct even beneath the pungent perfume of exotic cheeses. And beneath the cloying platitudes, a bald-faced loneliness that interests Hannibal more than the man himself. A talking point for his own therapist, he’s sure.

“Franklyn, I am your psychiatrist. Not your _Winston, down!_ ” Hannibal pauses. Closes his mouth. Clears his throat. “I’m sorry, _whossa good boy?_ ”

“Doctor Lecter, I’m not sure I... understand. You know, you don’t look so well.”

“I—please forgive me, but I think I am going to have to reschedule your appointment.”

“What!? No! I can help, what’s—”

“Franklyn,” Hannibal says, “no. I really must insist that you—” Hannibal feels the next one, like a gossamer touch between his ears. “I will make it up to you. Now, if you please...”

Hannibal ushers Franklyn, sputtering and eyes bulging, out of his office, his own mouth clamped shut, and locks the door behind him. One name enters his mind with inexplicable immediacy: _Will._

 

* * *

 

 

Will watches the dogs romp in the scrub grass and sips a whiskey. In an hour and a half, it’ll be 7:30. If he wants, he can drive to Baltimore, knock on Hannibal’s door, and resume his therapy, just like that. But he hasn’t been to a single appointment since... that night. Won’t be going to the next one either, not with the new moon a week out. What minimal contact they’ve had has been third-party—and from what he’s gathered, Hannibal is “fine.”

He knows he should ask Hannibal directly, but he just can’t bring himself to do it, let alone be around him. He’s half out of his mind as is, checking out in the midst of conversation to imagine Hannibal going about his day, Hannibal with other patients. It makes him feel a stab of jealousy he doesn’t understand. The dreams are the worst—like before but with an added element of substance. He wakes up, temporarily shocked to find himself alone in bed, the front of his underwear saturated by another night emission. Other times, he’s struck with the sensation that Hannibal is pouring a drink or settling down to sleep at the same time, as if they were wired to one another. Intimately congruent. _He’s tired, I’m tired. I’m—_

It doesn’t make sense. And yet here he is, doing _this_ again.

Will rolls a reverent thumb over the tie twisted around his hand, tumbler in the other, and lifts it to his nose and groans. It still smells like him. He knows it’s weird, downright creepy, but he’s just so . . . _compelled._

Will buries his noise in the knot where Hannibal’s scent is strongest, wondering if Hannibal will ever ask after his missing tie, and takes another deep draft. He feels the stirrings of an erection, Hannibal’s face cut clearly in his mind, and doesn’t expect his phone to go off. Definitely doesn’t expect the caller ID to read HANNIBAL LECVTER—he really ought to fix that.

After some agonizing, Will answers. “Yeah.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, breathing harshly into the receiver, “where are you?”

“Home, why? Is everything okay? You sound... winded.”

“On your porch?”

“ . . . Yeah.”

“Holding my garnet and ivory tie—the paisley.”

“Uh, that’s too good of a guess.” Will scans his property, expecting to see Hannibal pulling up in his Bentley. “Where are _you?_ ”

Will’s neck prickles, and he’s sure he hears a muffled grunt from the other end of the line. “—on my way.”

“ _Here?_ ” But Hannibal has already hung up.

A part of Will is horrified. Knows. The other part, the hind part responsible for his lizard-brained tie-huffing, is _ecstatic_. Hannibal’s coming. Coming _here._ Coming to _Will, where he belongs._

Wait, _what?_


End file.
